Page 108 of Who's Your Daddy?

Maybe it’s because I just reminded myself that I only have a short amount of time with him. Maybe it’s because I want to feel close to him. But I lift him up again and kiss the side of his head, loving the softness of his hair against my face.

“You know what, Bro?” I smile even though it feels like a thousand pounds of pressure is crushing down on me because that name is legendary. “Let’s just take each day as it comes and hope to God, we come out fine on the other side.”

24. Peter

Ihear the soft murmurson the baby monitor but keep my eyes closed, hoping it won’t escalate to more than that tonight. It’s a foolish hope because it escalates to inconsolable cryingeverynight.

I check my phone. It’s 2:42 a.m. With my eyes still partially closed, I wade down the corridor to the nursery.

“Morning,” I grumble, my voice gruff with exhaustion.

Lifting him out of the crib, I secure him in the crook of my arm, then head downstairs to make him a bottle. I already know how it’s going to go down. He’s going to cry the entire time it takes me to get his bottle ready. He’ll take a short break to guzzle it down, then resume crying for the next hour or so.

I’ve read a million articles to figure out why this happens. Some say it may be because he’s colic. Some say it’s reflux. Some even say he may be teething. But it happens like clockwork every single night, so I’ve ruled out all those suggestions. Especially because I think I’ve identified the problem on my own. He misses his mom. She said she’d be back in a week, two weeks at most.

But two weeks came and went, then three weeks, then four. Now five. Ambrose doesn’t understand why everything changed in a day, and I think he’s just restless. She was his primary caregiver, all he knew, and she just left him here in this unfamiliar environment. He misses her. He’s probably craving her smell, her body heat, the softness of her skin.

I can completely relate on this front. I’m also restless. I crave those very same things, and it keeps me up late at night too. So, I understand why it’s almost impossible to comfort him. I get why he needs to be held constantly. He wants something that he can’t have, and he can’t even express what he wants so badly.

I can try my best, but I can never give him what she gave him, and it’s so draining trying to be both mom and dad to him. I’ve had about five nannies already to help me with him just so I can get some rest, but I just can’t seem to let go of the responsibility and leave him in the care of someone else. They don’t feed him right. They don’t give him enough tummy time. They don’t read to him as often as I’d like. None of them can do it right, so I do it myself.

Being so anal about this comes with snags. I don’t go out much. I can’t go to the gym. The downstairs bedroom that I converted into a makeshift gym when Dylan moved in has proven to be useful because Scott and Dylan come here to work out now. We’ve got li’l Bro sitting in his rocker, watching us while we do push-ups and bench presses. It is what it is.

I’ve perfected the art of making a bottle with one hand. I can even do it with only one eye open. Wax on. Wax off. I’m a master now.

We go back upstairs, and I make myself comfortable in the rocking chair to feed him. I enjoy the few minutes of peace as he quietly slurps down every last drop. I lift him to burp him, and not even two minutes later, he starts crying again. Rocking him doesn’t help. I stand up and gently pat him as I walk the length of the room. It doesn’t help. He spits out the pacifier. He rejects the second bottle I make. Nothing helps.

And then it hits me. A memory comes to mind, something Lia said to me when we were setting up the nursery.

“You know, this is all our kid listens to. When he finally arrives, these old tunes will be the only music that calms him down.”

I’m so desperate for a solution right now that I’ll try anything. “How about something from the sixties?” I tell the screaming baby in my arms. “This song I wholeheartedly dedicate to your mother.” I put on Solomon Burke’sCry To Me. “It’s a classic. Released 1962. It was in Dirty Dancing, and for all the shit she gave me, she genuinely loved that movie.”

The sound catches his attention, and he looks around to see where it’s coming from. The wails don’t cease but become more sporadic.

“When your baby...leaves you all alone,”comes through the speakers.

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